


Without

by HopeCoppice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Other, They think they've lost each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:53:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21781753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: "You're better off without him."That's when it hits Aziraphale; he is going to be without Crowley.Later, Crowley has to face a world without Aziraphale.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 144





	Without

**Author's Note:**

> This is a combination of two ideas I had written down that sort of fed into one another and became one.

"-And when I'm off in the stars, I won’t even think about you!”

The Bentley took off around the corner and Aziraphale watched it go with a feeling he could only describe as despair.

“I’ve been there." It took him a moment to realise that there was a human standing close, his tone sympathetic. "You’re better off without him.”

_Without him._ The words cut him to the bone. _Without Crowley._ He would be without Crowley, _forever_ , the world would end without Crowley in it and Aziraphale would have to face it all _without Crowley._

No; that wouldn’t do. He couldn’t think like that. He would appeal to the Almighty Herself, and She would get all of this Armaggeddon nonsense straightened out, and the world would survive. And Crowley… Crowley would still be out there somewhere, among the stars, and Aziraphale would still be without him.

He’d been refusing to let himself think of it that way, refusing to accept the possibility that Crowley might really _leave_. That he might, truly, be _without Crowley_ for the first time in over six thousand years. He had never- there had never been a time when he was _without_ him, before, even when they hadn’t yet been friends, even when they’d had that little spat over Holy Water. Aziraphale had thought their friendship was ruined, certainly, had been astounded when Crowley had still come to his rescue in the church, but he’d known their paths would cross again, one way or another. He’d known that there would be another chance. Crowley, after all, was as good at being tempted as he was at being a living temptation.

Now, he was gone, and as Aziraphale stood on the familiar street where his shop had stood for over two centuries, a little of the colour seemed to have faded from the world. It would be easy to blame it on the approaching apocalypse, but he knew that wasn’t it. The truth was, without Crowley, the bookshop didn’t feel like home. A lanky, serpentine demon lolling about on the furniture every so often, safe in the knowledge that he would eventually be back to do it again, was apparently an integral part of Aziraphale’s home, and now - if only for the last few hours before it all fell apart - he would have to make do without.

Without Crowley, St James’s Park was just an uninspiring bit of field. Without Crowley, Shakespeare’s Sonnets were just blotches of ink and wasted puffs of air. Without Crowley, the Ritz was no more stately or luxurious than the ruins of a bombed-out church.

Without Crowley, there wasn’t a single first-edition book of prophecy that could offer him any hope. But for the world - for the world he had dedicated six millennia to, the world they’d _both_ dedicated six millennia to - he had to try to see this through.

He walked back into his shop and opened _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter._ There was still a world that needed saving.

Without Crowley.

* * *

Crowley lurched away from the bookshop, flames still roaring in his ears, book clutched tight to his chest. It was all he had left, now. All that was left of-

He slammed himself into the driver's seat of the Bentley and threw it into gear automatically, his hand brushing unthinkingly over the button that turned on his music as he went.

_“There’s no time for us,”_ Brian May’s voice reminded him softly from the speakers, _“there’s no place for us…”_

And didn’t Crowley know it? They had run out of time, and now with Aziraphale gone and the bookshop ablaze… There had never been any place for them, not really, but if there had been anything close to one, it had been the bookshop. In a more abstract sense, it had been Earth. Now the bookshop was gone, and Earth was soon to follow, and none of it mattered because _Aziraphale_ was gone. Whether he’d been discorporated or had reported to Heaven willingly - Crowley refused to consider the possibility that it might have been _Hellfire_ , that Aziraphale might be truly destroyed - the fact remained that they would never see each other again. At least, Crowley _hoped_ not. There was about to be a war between their two sides, and Crowley had no wish to meet Aziraphale on the battlefield.

He hoped it wasn’t Hellfire. It hadn’t smelt like Hellfire, but then the infernal component of it was short-lived anyway. By the time Crowley had arrived, it had been too late to tell for sure. Aziraphale might be really, truly, entirely gone, forever, and either way Crowley had lost him.

He switched off the music with a snarl, hurtling through London with no real destination in mind, and found himself passing theatre after theatre, many of them displaying huge posters for jukebox musicals. Those had been one of Crowley’s more diabolical ideas - they might be good shows in themselves, but they worked their way into people’s heads, rewriting beloved old songs _just_ enough to cause frustration when singing along to the radio. Crowley, of course, had gone along to see _We Will Rock You_ out of a sort of perverse curiosity, and had been irritated to find that he was not immune to this devilish effect. Even now, the version of _Who Wants to Live Forever_ continuing in his head wasn’t the original, but the musical’s adaptation.

_And we can have forever_

_And we can love forever_

_Forever is ours-_

It was triumphant, in the show, a powerful moment of looking mortality in the face and deciding to love anyway, to face it together. Usually, Crowley loved that about it. Today, it only soured his mood more.

_Forever is ours_ was triumphant, all right - but _forever is mine_ wasn’t triumphant at all, it was terrible.

_Forever is mine._

That was what Crowley had to face; the only consolation he could find was that at least _forever_ wasn’t going to be much longer. He couldn’t face it, anyway, however long it was. It would be a huge waste of time and effort if, having escaped Hell’s clutches, he turned up on the battlefield to be destroyed anyway.

He found a pub, and he ordered a bottle of their strongest, most expensive alcohol, and then he prepared to drink his way through the end of the world.

Without Aziraphale.

* * *

When it was all over, when the nightingale had sung and the champagne had been finished, both angel and demon found themselves oddly reluctant to ask for the bill. There was only so much they could drink and then sober up from without arousing suspicion, though, and they _would_ have to sober up - now that they had the freedom to dine at the Ritz whenever they liked, they didn’t want to ruin it by disgracing themselves in public.

Crowley broke the tense stalemate, raising a hand to summon a waiter and trying to look casual as he leant forward slightly, voice low and hoarse from all the dramatics of the previous few days.

“Right, angel. My place or yours?”

“Yours,” Aziraphale answered, without so much as an eyeroll at Crowley’s suggestive tone. “I wouldn’t blame you for falling into one of your _naps_ , but I’d rather not have to try to run the shop around you for however many years.”

“How practical,” Crowley sneered, but it was a fair point. He _was_ tired. Besides, the idea of being in the restored bookshop made him uneasy; he was sure he could still smell the smoke. “My place, then. Get a wiggle on.”

Aziraphale beamed as he got into the taxi that pulled up the moment they got outside, Crowley all but collapsing beside him.

"I really do think you should rest when we get there, Crowley," the angel told him, "you look exhausted."

"No, I can be sociable," he insisted, and Aziraphale pursed his lips.

"You can _sleep._ I'll just go home, and- or- well, if it wouldn't be very presumptuous-"

Crowley straightened up slowly. "What, angel?"

"-Perhaps I could stay," Aziraphale finished in a rush, and then seemed to decide that he hadn't finished after all. "Just to, you know, make sure there aren't any side effects, and it's just that, ah, I'm tired too, and I'm not really sure _how_ to sleep, and maybe you could show me, and it's safer if we have one another's backs-"

"Angel." It was barely a rasping breath. "I understand."

And so, when the cab pulled up outside Crowley's flat, Aziraphale offered his arm to help him up the stairs, and Crowley took it. They went straight to Crowley's bedroom, and they rested their heads on the pillows, and they slept.

Together.


End file.
